Free The Lone Star Lonely Hearts Club by Susan McBride Page A

salads, and tiny cheesecakes and tortes for dessert. The raw oysters, I bypassed.
    Plate stacked, I found a table to myself in the far corner, and I took it, afraid of having to make polite conversation with another living soul before I was so full I couldn’t eat another bite.
    Only after I’d inhaled every morsel—after I’d pushed away my plate and belched oh-so-discreetly behind my napkin—did I figure it was time to track down Cissy. She’d already been out of my sight for half an hour, and, since pandemonium hadn’t struck (that I was aware of), I had to believe she’d kept her promise to ixnay the “Bebe was murdered” nonsense.
    The distinct sounds of B.B. King and his guitar Lucille bounced through the air as I left my napkin on the table and wove my way through the happy mourners. Blues, I mused and nodded approvingly. That seemed far more appropriate for après-funeral than the Andrews Sisters.
    “Andrea! Yoo-hoo!”
    Turning toward the voice, I spotted Annabelle madly gesticulating, urging me to hurry over, halfway across the room. She stood beside a tall man and a tiny woman, both staring in my direction.
    I swallowed, praying they weren’t part of Belle Meade’s security team, come to tell me that Cissy had scrawled REDRUM on the door of Bebe’s town-house in Coco Red lipstick.
    As I sidestepped my way through tables and people, I craned my neck, trying to locate my mother, but I didn’t see Chanel hide nor salon-blond hair. Where had she disappeared? I tried not to think of it as I continued my progress toward Annabelle and her companions.
    No one smiled as I approached—further assuring me that this had something to do with Mother and it wasn’t good—which led to an attack of nerves that triggered a round of babbling.
    “Well, hey, y’all, I just sampled Chef Jean’s wares, and I’d give him a big thumbs-up. Though I was warned to skip his raw oysters. I heard they can clean out your pipes, if you’re not careful.” I attempted a guffaw, but it emerged as a nervous snort.
    Oh, boy, I sounded like Sister Mabel of the Pink Pantsuit.
    “Well, goodness, I’ll keep that in mind, about the oysters, I mean.” Annabelle gazed at me, a funny look on her face. “Um, Andrea Kendricks, I’d like you to meet our staff physician, Dr. Arnold Finch.”
    She inclined her head toward the tall man with the brooding good looks—I say, “brooding,” because he stood frowning at me, dark brows sitting caterpillar-like above mud-brown eyes. I’d guess he was in his forties, with just enough creases in his face to qualify him for middle age, a trace of salt in his pepper hair, which lent a sort of Mr. Rochester quality to him. He had the same disapproving air. Though maybe his tie was too tight, or else he’d had the oysters for lunch and wasn’t feeling too cheery at the moment. I liked to give folks the benefit of the doubt when I could.
    “Andy’s a friend of mine from summer camp,” Annabelle went on, by way of introduction.
    “A pleasure to meet you, Dr. Finch,” I said and stuck out my hand, which he made no attempt to grasp. He kept his own paws clasped behind his back. Could be he had one of those germ fetishes and only liked to touch other people when he was wearing latex.
    “I’m sure the pleasure is mine, Miss Kendricks,” he uttered without an ounce of sincerity.
    All rightee then.
    Annabelle nodded at the petite blonde to Finch’s left, who didn’t appear any more enthusiastic than the good doctor to be making my acquaintance.
    “This is Arnie’s wife, Patsy. She’s our in-house pharmacist and works alongside her hubby. Isn’t that just the coziest arrangement?”
    Cozy as a pair of possums, cornered and hissing.
    “Nice to meet you, Patsy,” I said, offering my hand once again—I’m a glutton for punishment—surprised when it wasn’t rejected. She grasped it lightly before letting go. Her milquetoast features suddenly bordered on pretty as she gave a slim